


Out of The Abyss

by Inbredipus



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games)
Genre: But only Fenris and Hawke are actually there, M/M, pretty much everyone is mentioned - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-08
Updated: 2018-01-08
Packaged: 2019-03-02 08:11:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13314078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inbredipus/pseuds/Inbredipus
Summary: It was a terrible thing, to dream. To hope. To wish. The past was the past.Still, he missed, he yearned for Kirkwall, for the peace and the laughter and the joy.





	Out of The Abyss

Hawke often found himself wishing for the past, and this moment was no exception. He stared into the campfire, the flames dancing tauntingly, freely.

He missed Kirkwall.

He missed the days before he was champion, when he could run around the town with nobody calling out to him, with no nobles following him around with cloying words of praise. He’d sit on some bench in hightown with a beer and a sandwich, and just watch the people go by. Sometimes Varric would join him, quietly pointing out the secrets of the people who walked by, blissfully unaware of the sets of eyes trained upon them.

“That’s Galwain, a merchant from Ferelden. He keeps trying to sell people stuff that he claims is ‘genuine darkspawn blood,’” Varric would say, subtly jerking his head in the direction of a shabbily-dressed man. “I’m pretty sure it’s just wine, though.”

“How bad must that wine be for him to think he’d have a better chance of selling it if he claimed it was made from darkspawn?” Hawke would respond, snorting.

“But what if it is darkspawn blood?”

“We get Anders to drink it first.”

“Damn, harsh,” Varric would retort, before laughing boisterously himself.

Just like that, the two would sit and watch until the sun slipped below the thin line of the horizon.

Maker, Hawke wished he could just shoot the breeze with Varric again.

He missed drinking at the Hanged Man, too; getting smashed beyond nearly all belief while playing Wicked Grace, watching Fenris down an entire bottle of antivan spirits (for such a slim man, he could outdrink a surprising amount of people, including Hawke himself), laughing as Isabela taunted several bar patrons before deciding which one to settle in with for the night, watching Anders get so drunk that he was reduced to resting his head on the table while mumbling something about “those fucking Templars.” He even missed the smell of stale urine and vomit that seemed to have soaked into the floorboards of the bar itself.

He missed the blood-stained dusts of Darktown, and how he’d often have to go down there, staff on his back, whole body on alert, ready to kill some ruffians who had fucked with the wrong merchant. He’d see Fenris and Aveline rush forward, both immediately on their guard. Fenris, his greatsword in hand, his entire lithe body lit up in an eerie blue, was cutting down people left and right, the blood splatter covering his armor in red gore. Aveline was more cautious, her shield up, sword poised to strike, waiting for an opening, and, if that failed, making one herself by bashing someone in the face with her shield. In the back, Varric was lining up shot after shot, each arrow he let loose meeting its mark head-on.

Hawke missed walking around Sundermount with Merrill, watching her face light up whenever she found an interesting plant, or animal.

“Hawke, look!” She would shout, gesturing excitedly at a small, flittering thing. “Isn’t it beautiful?!”

Hawke would squint, the bright sunlight of the day making it hard for him to make out the details of whatever it was that would have gotten Merrill so excited. Eventually, he’d make out the outline of a butterfly, and, satisfied with the level of detail he had witnessed, catch the attention of the rest of the group.

“What is it, Hawke?” Anders - who would have only come to check if the Templars had been bothering the nearby Dalish clan, though his queries would have been quickly rebuffed - would say.

“A butterfly, I think. Either that, or Merrill’s finally lost it.”

“You say that as if she isn’t already insane,” Fenris would say, drawing a glare from Anders.

“Look, Hawke! There are more!” Merrill would call, her speech lilting in the way that all the Dalish did.

Anders would go to watch, his worries forgotten for a minute, and his lips would curl into that gentle smile that Hawke had seen less and less as time had gone on.

The aroma of the wildflowers that grew on Sundermount was so vibrant in his daydreams that Hawke swore he could almost smell it, and for a faint second he wasn’t sitting on the ground in some Makerforsaken forest somewhere in Orlais.

Then the wind changed, and the smoke from his campfire flew into Hawke’s face, burning his eyes.

“Fuck,” Hawke grunted, moving out of the smoke’s path. His eyes were watering, from both the smoke and from the memories, the wanting.

It was a terrible thing, to dream. To hope. To wish. The past was the past.

Still, he missed, he yearned for Kirkwall, for the peace and the laughter and the joy.

He missed Merrill’s light laughter, how she would wander into places she never should’ve been, but still walk out unscathed and with a smile on her face. When they parted, her eyes had lost their light, the sin of the Keeper’s death weighing her slim shoulders down. He’d heard that she was protecting the Dalish now. Hawke wondered if she had learned to smile again.

He missed Varric’s stories, his way of spinning a yarn that held just the right amount of truth so that one couldn’t help but believe it. When they had met at Skyhold, Varric had seemed lethargic, his movements slowed by grief and the burden that had been placed upon him. There were still jokes, still tall tales, but a bit of the spark that had made Varric so charismatic in the first place seemed to have died. Hawke wasn’t sure when that had happened. With Meredith? With Bartrand? Hawke had known better than to ask.

He missed Aveline’s nagging, the sound of her heavy armor clinking as she walked into Hawke’s estate with yet another mission from the guard, even how she would follow Hawke around, worried that he would find trouble, or, more likely, that trouble would find him. From what Hawke knew, she was still in Kirkwall with Donnic, still trying to rebuild after the explosion at the Chantry. Hawke always worried that she blamed him for the mess that was Kirkwall, though it was a silly thing to think. Either way, Hawke always found it hard to reach out to her.

He missed Isabela’s wildness, how she lived beholden to nobody but herself. He missed the way she would confidently flirt with the random people around her, her crooked smile gleaming as she leaned on the bar at the Hanged Man, her eyes filled to the brim with mischief. Hawke especially missed the way that Isabela would try to pretend that she didn’t care about anything other than freedom and the sea, even when she was so obviously concerned for the safety of those less fortunate. She was a captain now, if Hawke heard correctly. He was glad that she had managed to come out for the better in the end, even though nobody else had seemed to.

He missed Anders, yes, even Anders. Hawke missed the way Anders smiled to himself as he watched patients leave his clinic, the way he would laugh to himself after making a stupid joke, even if nobody else had found it funny. He missed the way Anders looked forward, his path clear to him. It had been clear, anyway. Hawke still couldn’t forget the look in Anders’ eyes as he left, walking with his head held low into a forest. He looked lost, as though he hadn’t thought this far. He probably hadn’t. Anders had probably planned to die at Kirkwall, if his expression when Hawke spared him was any indication. Varric had mentioned that Anders was now a wandering healer, apparently having taken Hawke’s demands about fixing the mess he started to heart. Hawke couldn’t bring himself to hate Anders; something had been brewing for a long time, and Anders had just brought it to the surface. He hoped Anders had stopped hating himself, too.

He missed Carver. Even if he and his brother never really got along, Hawke truly did care for him. Every time he came upon a red templar’s body, he checked it for a mabari tattoo - the one that Carver had gotten while he was in the army. Even though Hawke knew that Carver had gotten away from the Templars, he still worried that, one day, he would come across Carver’s lyrium-corrupted corpse.

Most of all, he missed Fenris. They hadn’t seen each other for a while, not since Hawke had begun investigating the Grey Wardens. Hawke missed their life in Kirkwall, how Fenris would always follow Hawke, no matter the risk. He missed staying up late with a book, slowly teaching Fenris to read, and watching with a mix of pride and affection as Fenris would finally figure out a difficult word. He missed falling asleep with Fenris by his side, listening to the slow breathing beside him. When Hawke had told him about his mission, Fenris had glared at him in the way that he always did when he was scared.

“Fine, do what you wish.” Fenris’ lips had twisted into a scowl, his annoyance barely masking his worry. 

Eventually, he’d given up on trying to convince Hawke to take him, and had secretly taken another of Hawke’s kerchiefs - a blue one, this time - as a good luck charm. Hawke had pretended he hadn’t noticed.

Maker, he missed Fenris.

He was silent for a moment, his eyes tracing the outline of the coals that fueled his campfire.

Then there was a rustle, the sound of armor clinking.

Hawke stood up quickly, reaching for his staff, his mind working overtime to read the situation.

Light footsteps, so either a woman, an elf, or a dwarf. Heavy armor, so a warrior. A templar?

The rustle came again, this time from the left, and as Hawke whirled around to face his opponent…

...He came face-to-face with a certain elf.

“Hello, Hawke,” Fenris said, rubbing the back of his head with his hand. He looked as though he had just been caught stealing, and refused to meet Hawke’s eyes.

Hawke visibly relaxed. “Maker’s breath, Fenris, you nearly became literal toast.”

“My apologies.”

The pair stared at each other in silence for a moment, each taking in the other’s presence.

Eventually, Hawke muttered “fuck it” and launched himself at Fenris, pulling him into a large hug.

Fenris glowed in alarm for a brief second, before tenatively hugging back.

Hawke kissed the top of Fenris’ head before murmuring “I missed you.”

“And I, you,” Fenris responded, resting his head on Hawke’s shoulder.

Hawke felt his heart grow a little lighter. Yes, this was good. This was what he needed.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading the first fanfiction that I posted! I'm a sap for these two.


End file.
